


Your Father's Tact

by blueink3



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Non-Canon Compliant after 2x11, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:44:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16012457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: "She still isn't entirely sure how it came about, but somehow – some way – August W. Booth, Neal Cassidy, and Captain freaking Hook are on the receiving end of a massive time-out from Prince Charming himself."Or, Emma used to imagine what it would be like to bring a boy home to meet the family. She's now rethinking that particular daydream.





	1. Your Father's Tact

_This can't possibly be real. There's no way in this land, or any other frankly, that this could possibly be happening._

She still isn't entirely sure how it came about, but somehow – some way – August W. Booth, Neal Cassidy, and Captain freaking Hook are on the receiving end of a massive time-out from Prince Charming himself.

No, 'time-out' isn't really the word. 'Interrogation' is much more apt.

She's still trying to piece together the last few minutes, even as she sprints down Main Street, chest tight and heart pounding. She's going as fast as her legs will carry her, yet the thought of the three men that her deputy has apparently taken into custody makes her stomach twist. The wind whips her golden hair behind her and her arms pump in her leather jacket, as Henry's words echo in her ears:

" _So Pinocchio is back, as is some guy named Neal? And Gramps took them all down to the station for 'a little chat."_

Henry even used air quotes.

" _Oh, Captain Hook is there too. And Gramps may or may not have used handcuffs. But I'm not supposed to tell you that."_

 _Crap_ was the first phrase that came to Emma's mind.  _Murder in the first degree_ was the second.

It took her a good ten seconds to actually process Henry's words, and another five before she was out the door and down the stairs, having no desire whatsoever to read Prince Charming, of all people, his Miranda rights.

She sees the station just up ahead and mentally curses her deputy for taking Storybrooke's resident cop car. Granted, she had been on her lunch break, but still. Running full tilt in leather boots isn't doing her ankles any favors.

Her hand connects with the glass door and she barely registers as it bangs back against the wall. All she wants is to make it to the office without stumbling over someone's body.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Neal is the first one she sees and the half-terrified/half-happy look he gives her as his eyes find hers makes anger bubble somewhere in her chest. He has no right to be happy to see her. Luckily, he's handcuffed to the arm of the chair he's in, and her anger melts away into some sort of schadenfreudic satisfaction.

August is the next one she spots, followed by David who barks, "You. Sit," at the formerly wooden boy.

August drops into the indicated chair incredibly quickly, blue eyes wide. It's the most lost Emma's ever seen him and she can't help but be impressed that her father was the one to put that look on his face.

And finally, there's Hook. Hook, who's looking at the proceedings like it's the best entertainment he's seen all year.  _Bastard._

David is twirling another pair of handcuffs around his finger, as he paces in front of the men he's illegally holding. As sheriff, Emma should probably point out that what her deputy is doing is in violation of all sorts of this, that, and the other thing, but right now, she's too busy holding her breath, waiting to see how all of this is going to pan out.

"You left my daughter," David finally says as his gaze bores into August. "I understand that your father was trying to protect you by lying to us about the wardrobe, but you were supposed to watch over her!" David's voice cracks and something inside Emma breaks.

"I was a boy," August finally whispers after a moment of silent resignation.

"But you didn't come back," is David's retort. It's soft, as if he finally sees the pain that decision caused the former-Pinocchio. Soft, but no less angry. Something warm swells in Emma's chest.

"I didn't come back," August admits and, after a moment, David nods before moving onto his next victim.

"Can I just say – " Hook begins, before David cuts him off.

"Wait your turn. I'm not done with you yet."

Hook holds up both flesh and steel in mock surrender, before crossing his arms over his chest with no small amount of mirth. David shoots him an extra glare before turning his carefully controlled temper on the man who left her with nothing but a record, a positive pregnancy test, and the keys to a VW Bug.

"I suppose I should be thanking you for my grandson – "

"Wait.  _He's_ Henry's father?"Hook blurts out and Emma has to bite her lips to keep her laugh from escaping.

Neal shakes his head, as if he can't believe that Captain Hook is questioning his paternity, but David ploughs on undeterred.

"You have some explaining to do."

"I don't owe you anything," Neal replies, gaining somewhat of a backbone under her father's admittedly intimidating gaze. "Not to a guy who put his daughter in a tree."

Emma's surprised, because he certainly didn't learn that information from her, but before she can even voice the question on the tip of her tongue, Neal answers it.

"He told me," he says, nodding his head towards August. "If I owe anything, it's to  _her_."

And finally, David turns and sees her standing in the doorway, and everything else seems to stop as sheepish alarm settles into his features.

The tick of the second-hand on the clock is practically thunderous compared to the silence that's engulfed the room.

She takes a step in, and then another, before she's close enough to register Neal's bruising cheek and August's ripped shirt. Hook seems unscathed and that doesn't surprise her in the least.

Her gaze finally sweeps over David's face; the anger has melted away, revealing something much softer, but there's still a steady pulse of  _protect her_ in his eyes.

Emma nearly buckles under its weight.

She should say, 'This is entirely illegal' or 'I think they've been chastised enough,' but she can't because he's here and she's here and they're here she's been waiting for this moment, this interrogation, for  _years._

Ever since she first allowed herself to imagine bringing Neal home to meet her non-existent family.

Her hearts pangs painfully for a moment as she spies Graham's jacket, still hanging on the rack in her office. She remembers that he tasted like coffee and smelled like pine. His lips were soft and his curls untamed. At the time, Neal had been nothing but a distant memory, only remembered when she spotted his features in Henry's face. And in the last ten years, Graham was the only one to come close to inhabiting that coveted daydream.

It's ridiculous, but she's relishing the protection in her father's eyes and the fear in Neal's. The guilt in August's and the cockiness in Hook's. The situation is so far beyond anything she might have imagined, but her  _father_ is defending her honor and, for as stubborn and bullheaded as she can be, for once she's happy to sit back and let someone else fight her fights.

After all, he's been fighting for her since she first drew breath.

"Charming." The semi-chastising voice belongs to Snow and five heads turn to find her standing in the doorway, eyebrow raised as if to say,  _"Really?"_

Emma can't help but smile because she's seen the exact same expression in the mirror. David sheepishly shrugs but doesn't remove his hands from his hips. Emma likes to call it his 'battle stance.'

Snow takes another step into the room, her gaze surveying the various men that have been rounded up, before settling on her husband once more. And Emma watches in wide-eyed wonder as they conduct an entire conversation without ever uttering a single word.

It's impressive, and something she hopes one day to be able to do with someone, but for now, she studies them as they teach a master class in intimacy.

"Look, your  _highness,_ if we're done with family bonding hour, I'd really like to get back to wenching and pillaging, if it's all the same to you."

Of  _course_ Hook is the one to break the moment. And of  _course_ David's temper flares.

August shifts his seat further away from the gathering storm and motions with his head for Neal to do the same. Though handcuffed, her ex does manage to hop his chair out of the way, just as David advances on the pirate. He opens his mouth for some witty retort, but then Emma finds herself saying, "Dad," and the ticking of the second hand is back as complete silence settles on the room once more.

The fire in her father immediately dies, leaving just a flicker of utter astonishment.

 _Dad._ She has called him many things over the past few weeks: David, Charming, Deputy, Prince, Hey You, but not Dad. Never Dad.

She can't look at Snow because she just  _knows_ she'll see tears tracking down her mother's cheeks, and that's not an image her already unstable emotions can handle. David isn't much better, staring at her with more hope and fear than he's probably felt since he held a sword in his right hand and her in his left.

She sees him swallow once, then twice, emotions working as he glances at the tiled floor and clears his throat. He takes a moment and no one breathes a word, not even the guys, as if they know just how momentous this is.

Emma can tell that Snow is about a second away from going to her husband, but David recovers and nods, pulling out a chair and gesturing for Hook to take a seat. The pirate stares at him like he's just suggested they go skinny-dipping off Antarctica, but David merely pulls out his keys and unlocks Neal, before placing a reassuring squeeze on August's shoulder.

Something inside Emma mends at the gesture. A something she didn't even know was broken.

"Okay," David says, voice a little rough but no less firm. "We're grown men. We can talk about this civilly."

Snow nods in encouragement, even as Emma rolls her eyes. This can't end well.

David takes a seat as his gaze finds Hook, and the arrogant smirk the pirate's been wearing since she arrived falters.

Nope, there is definitely no way this ends well.

"Captain," David begins, as he places his elbows on the table and folds his hands calmly in front of him. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"

August snorts and Snow gasps, as Neal grins and Hook gapes. As for Emma…

Her face flushes and a curse slips through her lips, but damn if that question doesn't make her beam.


	2. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Snow isn't paying attention.

And Snow knows she isn't paying attention which is why she's not at all surprised that she's ladled half of the broth onto the counter instead of the bowl. She quickly mops it up before getting back to the matter at hand.

She's not entirely sure  _what_ happened over the past few hours. She came home from the grocery store and was accosted by her grandson speaking a mile a minute, allowing her to only pick up every other word.

" _Gramps…angry… arrested… Pinocchio… yelling… threats… Hook… Emma," he finished, before inhaling the breath he had forgotten to take._

It was the combination of "Hook" and "Emma" that sent her to the station in pursuit of her wayward husband and daughter. She got there just in time, too, by the look of things. Still. She's been playing catch-up ever since Charming left a particularly pissed pirate locked in the holding cell of Storybrooke's finest and shooed August back to Marco.

Which brings her back to the finger she almost loses while chopping onions as she eavesdrops on the occupants of the living room.

"So… where are you from?"

"Here and there," is the answer and, flippant though it may be, Snow can tell without even turning that Neal is studying Henry with as much care as she's taking listening in.

"Cool," Henry replies and Snow finally glances down to realize she's a second away from accidentally putting nutmeg instead of cayenne pepper in the sauce in front of her.

 _Focus, Mary Margaret,_ she thinks and then pauses, as she does whenever she actually notices the Mary Margaret/Snow White bleed-through.

"Need help?" Emma is standing next to her silently begging to be put to work.

"Living room a little tense?" Snow teases as she hands her daughter a knife and cutting board.

"Not for Henry," Emma mutters, throwing a mock glare over her should where Henry is talking Neal's ear off.

He's still unaware of his connection to the man, which is probably for the best. For the time being, at least. Snow watches her grandson's animated gestures with a smile on her face before her attention shifts to Charming, who is sitting in the armchair with his narrowed gaze locked on Neal.

No wonder Emma needed a break.

Just a week ago, her husband was lamenting that he's terrible at this whole "Dad-thing," but as she watches him watch Neal, Snow quickly realizes what a natural he is. Much to Emma's chagrin at the moment.

Her focus switches to her daughter as she chops tomatoes a little too carefully.

"And how are you?"

Emma snorts. "The father of my 11-year-old son just came waltzing back into town – oh, with  _Pinocchio,_ I might add. Pinocchio, who supposedly took a place in a magical wardrobe meant for one of my parents. Then he left me, so I grew up alone."

Something inside Snow twists sharply at the reminder as Emma ploughs on.

"Captain  _Hook_ is wreaking havoc on the town I happen to be sheriff of. Oh and did I mention that my ex is also a conman, therefore a  _wonderful_ role model for his son?  _And_ he's the long-lost son of Rumpelstilstkin? Which makes me, but more importantly my  _son,_ connected to a man I never, ever wanted to be connected to?!"

Snow gently takes the knife Emma had been wielding and places it out of her reach. "Glad to get that off your chest?"

"I feel so much better," she groans, head tilted back towards the ceiling.

Snow smiles, despite the situation, and glances into the living room once more. Charming is eyeing them curiously and when he catches her eye, he gives her a look that asks,  _"Everything okay?"_

She nods and gives him a smile before he returns to brooding and focusing his barely contained wrath on the man speaking to their grandson.

"Do you think Henry's okay?" Emma whispers, in a rare moment of vulnerability.

"I think Henry's okay as long as your father keeps an ear on the conversation."

Emma follows Snow's gaze to Charming and chuckles. "He's taken to this whole 'protective' thing like a duck to water."

"He's been protecting things since he could walk." At Emma's questioning look, Snow elaborates. "He grew up alone with his mother."

"With his mother? But I thought King George…"

It's then that Snow realizes she's stepped in it. This is not her story to tell, but the expression on Emma's face informs her that there's no way she's leaving this kitchen without explaining.

"You've read Henry's book."

"Clearly not the important parts!"

Snow smiles even as she picks at a dishtowel, resolutely avoiding her daughter's piercing gaze. She briefly wonders if Charming will be angry that she's divulging his past, but their daughter should know who's responsible for her very existence.

"Your father is a shepherd. Not a Prince. At least not by birth." The news seems to land smoothly with Emma – she merely raises a questioning eyebrow – and Snow considers it safe to proceed. "The Queen was cursed to never bear children, and King George needed an heir." Her gaze wanders over to her husband where he watches Neal's moves like a hawk. "So he came for your father's twin."

At this, Emma's jaw drops. "His twin?"

Snow nods. "I'm not sure how his mother chose. But one went to grow up the heir to a kingdom and one stayed behind to tend to the sheep."

"But how… how did  _my_ father end up Prince?"

Emma is trying to hide her eagerness but it's her utterance of 'my father' that has Snow pausing, and not just for effect.

"His twin was killed. Your father had to step in and play the part." She watches as Charming helps Henry's stance so he can show Neal his new sword tricks. "He played it well, too. Fooled even me."

Snow needs to get to the important part, not that their meet-cute isn't important, but Emma knows it. What Emma doesn't know is that there's another woman to whom everyone in this room owes a great deal.

"Months later, I was to meet Charming's mother for the first time, but King George got there first. Ruth, your grandmother, was wounded by one of the King's men, who came to capture your father." The memory of meeting her mother-in-law under such circumstances stings, even to this day. "We brought her to Lake Nostos, but it had dried up. There was just enough for one."

Emma frowns. "Well, wouldn't that have been enough?"

Snow smiles sadly and shakes her head. "I wish." Emma blanches as Snow continues. "I mentioned that the Queen was cursed and unable to have children. What I failed to mention was that, in retribution for your father choosing love over power, King George cursed me too."

Emma's small gasp is the only thing that draws Snow back to reality. The memories are so powerful, so deep, that getting lost in them is akin to getting caught in a riptide. Swim against it and you drown. Go with it, and your struggle is easier, but your fate still uncertain.

Emma glances down as if double-checking that, yes, she does still exist. It's a movement that makes Snow want to laugh and cry in equal measure.

"So there was just enough remedy for one."

"But you needed two," Emma murmurs. "She didn't drink it."

"She slipped it into a cup for me. I had no idea until it was too late. Until she was gone."

Emma is processing this new information and it looks like she's fighting a losing battle to keep the emotion out of her trembling voice. "She gave her life so I could have my own? So David could have a family?"

Snow shrugs, as if the answer is the simplest thing in the world. "That's what parents do."

Emma's gaze wanders over to Charming, and Snow has a feeling she's thinking about a certain baby blanket that has a certain bloodstain on it. The image of him lying there next to an empty wardrobe in a puddle of red is not one Snow is likely to forget. Nor is the slight smile that graced his features in knowing that he had succeeded. That their baby was safe.

She turns back to the sauce and gives it an extra stir, well aware that Emma has yet to move from her spot as her eyes continue to dissect the man sitting in the living room giving Henry pointers on his footwork.

"Does he know?"

"About the curse?"

Emma nods.

"No."

Emma glances sharply at her and, perhaps Snow should have divulged that rather important piece of information, but she's his wife. She's his love. And part of the job description is protecting his heart.

"Dinner's ready," she finally whispers, giving Emma a gentle nudge that says  _Yes you have to go back into the living room now,_ which draws a near-whine from her almost 29-year-old daughter. "Come on boys, take your seats," she calls, ignoring the glare that Emma shoots her way.

"Where can I, uh, wash up?" Neal asks hesitantly, well aware that Charming's eyes are watching his every move.

"Bathroom's just down there," Snow replies, pointing to the corner. She plasters a smile on her face as Neal nods graciously, rubbing his wrists from the phantom chafe of the handcuffs.

Charming smiles. Snow hits him with a dishrag.

"What?"

"Stop it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

"Children!" Emma calls, bringing the bickering to a halt.

It's a jarring thing to be reprimanded by one's own daughter and both Snow and Charming are relatively chastened. She retreats to the kitchen to get the food as Charming drops into a chair at the head of the table.

Henry mutters a quiet, "Busted" to her husband and it's all she can do to not burst out laughing in the kitchen. And this is a situation where she definitely shouldn't be laughing. Tensions are high, her husband is a breath away from pummeling the father of her grandson, her family is now far too few degrees away from Rumpelstiltskin, and her daughter is caught in the middle of it all.

Hell, she should just put the water away and break out the whiskey at the rate they're going. But no. She's Snow White and she's supposed to be the voice of reason in all of this.

She passes Charming as she puts salad bowls around and squeezes the back of his neck. She hopes to convey,  _Behave, I understand, I want to hit him too, I love you_ all through the simple touch of her fingertips. And it seems to work too, because his shoulders relax and the crease on his forehead, the one that matches Emma's perfectly, eases. But the respite is short-lived for a moment later, the bathroom doors opens and her Prince is on high alert again.

Snow sighs as she takes her place and joins Henry as the only member of her family to smile as Neal takes his.

"So Neal, how are you liking Storybrooke?" If she moderates the conversation, perhaps she can keep it out of dangerous waters.

"It's… quaint," he answers after a moment and Snow can tell that that's not the answer the rest of her family wants to hear.

"Quaint?" Emma asks, eyebrow raised.

"Well, it's no Manhattan, but it's nice," Neal recovers and Snow breathes a sigh of relief.

Charming spears his chicken a little too harshly and Henry just watches the proceedings with wide eyes.

"What's going on?" the boys asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing!"

"Henry, eat your peas," are the three responses he gets in quick succession, providing him with all the proof he needs that something is definitely  _off._

"Seriously, guys." Henry puts down his fork and rests his elbows on the table, eyeing them all. And he looks so much like the perfect amalgamation of the man sitting on his left and the man sitting on his right that Snow has to hide her watering eyes behind her napkin. "Something's going on!"

"Henry – " Emma starts, but she's abruptly cut off by Neal.

"Your mom and I are just old friends and we haven't properly caught up yet. It's been a while since I've seen her, that's all."

Henry seems placated and he picks up his fork once more. "And I bet you're not used to a person's parents being the same age as them."

Neal chuckles and even Charming manages a smile. "You got that right. But nothing's wrong."

And Snow has to admire him in that moment because Henry is his  _son._ And he had every right to say, "Yes, something's going on. I'm your long-lost father that never knew about you," but he didn't. She chances a glance to her right and Emma seems to be exhaling all of the breath she's been holding since Henry started to get suspicious. A glance to her left shows Charming eyeing Neal without any semblance of malice for the first time that night. In fact, it might even be respect.

Snow stares down at her food and attempts to take a bite, but everything tastes bland compared to the rich family drama happening around her table. Conversation eventually settles into something resembling normalcy. Neal asks Henry about school and Henry replies with gusto. It's mentioned that Emma and Charming run the sheriff's department and Neal's eyebrows hit his hairline.

" _Really_? Not exactly the occupation I would have pegged you for."

Emma glares and immediately Charming's hackles are up. Snow places her hand on his knee under the table and squeezes. She feels him relax under her palm.

Neal and Emma clearly know something that the rest of them don't, because Emma's glare melts away into laughter and, before Snow knows it, Neal is laughing right along with her.

"I mean, they give you handcuffs and a gun and everything?"

"Well, you would know. You got up close and personal with those handcuffs barely an hour ago."

Neal laughs harder. "True."

And for as out of the loop as she is, she's happy because Emma and Neal are  _smiling_ and even if their relationship is too damaged to repair, they should at least have something meaningful, for Henry's sake.

Charming takes her hand under the table and laces his fingers through hers. Their baby girl is no longer that. Snow's known it for a while, but it's moments like these, when she's facing her problems instead of running, that Snow finally allows herself to admit it.

It's both exhilarating and heartbreaking.

"Your Dad's intense," Neal says, and it's to his credit that he manages to be both teasing and respectful. Else Charming might have launched himself over the table.

"It's a point of pride," Emma mutters, but even she smiles when she catches her father's eye. He winks at his daughter and Snow's heart skips a beat.

"And how long will you be in Storybrooke?" Charming asks, but it's no simple question or conversation starter. He's testing him.

Neal puts down his fork and wipes his mouth on his napkin, before meeting Emma's gaze and answering, "As long as Storybrooke will have me."

It's apparently the right answer, as Charming finally lets go of Snow's hand and picks up his utensils to eat. He's the only one who has yet to touch his food and even Henry is more than halfway finished with his meal.

"I could call over to Granny's and tell her to set up a room," Charming says. "If you need a place to stay,"

The first sound heard is Emma's fork dropping to her plate and the next is Neal choking on his food. After he clears his airways thanks to a thump on the back from Henry, he replies, "That'd be great. Thanks."

Charming nods and returns to his meal, having contributed his fill to the conversation. But what he misses, however, is the positively adoring look Emma sends his way.

It's her daughter's turn to get a pat on the knee as Snow finally takes another bite, relieved to see that the food has regained its flavor. Dinner passes relatively uneventfully until it's time to clear, when she takes the plates out of Emma's hands and nudges her towards Neal.

Emma shoots her a pleading look, but Snow shakes her head, refusing to allow Emma to hide behind dish soap and rubber gloves. Emma takes Neal into the living room and Charming moves to follow, but Snow halts him with a firm grip on his forearm.

"Give them time."

His look is pained as he gazes at his daughter leading Neal to the couch.

"She's fine. She's still within throwing distance. She's handled ogres and giants and sorceresses. I think she can handle a conversation without your hovering presence."

"Yeah, she did it for 28 years," he mutters and Snow cups his cheek, before bringing him in for a kiss that lasts a moment longer than they usually do when in company. "What was that for?" He looks adorably befuddled.

"Because I love you. That's all." She rubs her lipstick off the corner of his lips and hands him a tupperware of leftovers. "Take Hook some food. You left him locked up all afternoon."

Charming's look goes from befuddled to indignant in no time flat. "Absolutely not. He's lucky he got a pillow. I am not bringing him  _dinner._ "

"Please? For me?"

Charming stands with his hands on his hips before he finally mutters, "Dammit. Fine. I'll go bring him food."

"You're a good man," Snow gushes, as she's wont to do whenever she gets her way.

"Can I come?" Henry asks as he practically bounces over to them and Snow actually witnesses the exact moment when Charming caves under the boy's pleading eyes.

"Get your coat, kid."

"Yes!"

There are exactly three people in this world that can get the heroically stubborn Prince Charming to do their bidding without so much as a glance. And they're all in this room.

Snow watches with a smile on her face as Charming bends down and throws Henry over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he strides toward the door.

"To the pirate!" Henry calls.

"To the pirate!" Charming puppets, causing Snow to laugh as Emma mouths a 'thank you' in her direction.

She nods at her daughter and turns back toward the dishes.

"He's good with him," she hears Neal murmur and even she can hear the note of jealousy in it.

"You will be too," Emma replies and Snow has to pause for a moment, palms pressing into the counter, because she's coming to terms with the fact that she's witnessing her daughter grow up right before her very eyes. And it's something she thought she was entirely too late for.

Twenty-eight years is a long time, but not eternity.

Her family, a family that came  _so close_ to not happening, is here. And, dysfunctional though it may be, she wouldn't trade it for this world.

Or any other.


	3. Drink Up Me Hearties, Yo Ho!

Henry holds a fork in one hand and his scarf in another as he jogs down the street in an effort to keep up with his grandfather's long strides. Gramps is a man on a mission and Henry fights to hide his grin, because he finds the whole Charming versus Hook battle a lot funnier than he really should.

The metal fork is rapidly cooling in the fierce Maine winter, but he's so excited to speak to  _the_ Captain Hook that the idea of putting on his gloves isn't even close to the forefront of his mind. Grandma tried to give him a knife too, but Gramps had drawn the line, saying that the pirate could spear the food with his hook if need be. Henry thought that was sensible, if a little messy.

"I didn't know pirates ate chicken parmesan."

"I think pirates eat whatever is put in front of them," Gramps mutters and Henry knows he's not thrilled with what they're about to do.

Still. Henry hasn't been on a proper adventure alone with his grandfather since his mom and grandmother came back and, as excited as he is that they're all together, he still sorta misses boys' time.

And it's this thought that prompts him to ask, rather abruptly: "Did you ever want a son?"

Yep, the question makes Gramps halt in the middle of the sidewalk, causing Henry to bump right into his leather-clad back.

"What?"

"Did you ever want a son?" Henry repeats, rubbing the bridge of his nose and thanking the fates for not letting him stab his grandfather with the fork.

"Uh…" Gramps' forehead creases and he stares at something in the distance. "Yeah, I did." He chuckles and ruffles Henry's hair. "Thought your mom was a boy for a good long time, until your grandmother finally clued me in."

The thought makes Henry smile and think of his great-grandmother, a woman who was pretty awesome in her own right. Ruth wanted David to have a big family, and again, Henry speaks before he thinks as he says:

"Do you think you'll have more kids?"

Gramps stops again and, this time, his face shows no hints of humor. "I… well…" he runs a hand through his closely cropped hair, "I guess I never really thought about it."

He looks contemplative and continues on his way to the jail, leaving Henry to catch up and second-guess whether voicing that particular question was the brightest idea.

They could. It wasn't completely out of the question. Heck, they're younger than most of his friends' parents! But it's clearly something that his grandparents haven't thought of – they're still trying to figure out how to act around the daughter (and grandson) they do have.

Henry, however, thinks they're doing a bang-up job. It's like they're hard-wired to take care of people. Maybe that's why they were such good monarchs.

"Kid, where are your gloves?" Gramps suddenly asks and before he can even register what's happening, his hands are being shoved into his grandfather's deep, fleece lined pockets (fork included) and his scarf is being wrapped around his neck.

Henry didn't even realize he was cold until Prince Charming bundled him up.

"Better?" Gramps quietly asks.

Henry wiggles his fingers, causing Gramps to chuckle. "Ticklish?"

"A bit. Don't tell your mother."

"Our secret," Henry replies. "Can we pause for a second?"

"Of course, kid. I have an extra pair of gloves in my desk at the station. Take them for the way home."

Henry is warm enough, but he doesn't quite want to walk away from this moment just yet. His hands are buried deep in his grandfather's pockets and he's close enough to breathe in his aftershave. It's become a comforting scent, always lingering in his room and telling him that Gramps spent the night in the chair next to his bed after a nightmare, despite the fact that he tried to sneak out before Henry woke.

He allows his forehead to fall forward, even as he mutters, "I think we can go now."

"You sure?" Gramps' hands are large and heavy on his shoulders.

"Uh huh. I'm sure Hook is hungry anyway." Henry smiles as his grandfather mock glares at him.

"Don't remind me," Gramps mutters as he grabs Henry in a headlock. "C'mon. The faster we feed him, the faster we can get outta there."

They're at the jail in minutes, and the heat in high, but the station's radiators are not nearly as comforting as his grandfather's pockets.

"Ah, Deputy Charming, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Hook asks as he leans against the bars.

Gramps raises the tupperware of food and practically growls, "Dinner."

"Ah. The Sheriff's doing, I presume?"

"Her mother's."

Henry likes the surprise that registers on the pirate's face as he proudly holds up the fork he's brought. "It's chicken parmesan. And Grandma is a really great cook."

"Grandma," Hook chuckles and Henry plops down on the floor in front of his cell, slipping both the food and the fork in between the bars.

"It's weird, isn't it? That they're the same age, right?"

Hook nods, throwing a grin to Gramps, who ignores him in favor of pulling up a chair and propping his feet up on his desk.

"You going to watch me eat? I can't imagine it'll be very interesting."

"Snow would like her fork back. She prefers a complete set," Charming replies.

"Well, cheers," Hook raises the fork to Henry and digs in to the dish.

"So you know Peter Pan, right?" Henry's attempting to make conversation because Gramps is doing nothing but glaring at the pirate, much in the same way he spent dinner glaring at Neal.

Hook swallows. "I do. Right bugger, too – Mm, you weren't lying. My compliments to the chef," he says as he points to the chicken.

"I'll pass them along," Gramps replies.

"Does he really fly?" Henry asks, not at all interested in the battle of dominance happening between the men in the room.

"Unfortunately."

The bitter reply causes Gramps to smile and the pirate jumps on the opportunity.

"And does the Prince have an arch enemy?" Hook inquires.

"Many." After a moment, Gramps adds, "Depends on the day of the week."

"I hear you there." Hook shovels another bite into his mouth and Henry just sits back and watches. "Each week, there's another lost boy stealing my loot, or a rookie pirate attempting to take my title as the fiercest terror of the high seas."

"Fiercest terror of the high seas?" Gramps asks with a smile.

"It needs work," Hook concedes. "Got anything for a poor pirate to wet his whistle? Preferably alcoholic?"

Gramps' gaze narrows but he removes his boots from the desk and disappears into Emma's office.

"Doesn't smile much, does he."

Henry shrugs. "He does with me. You just have to get on his good side."

"I'm not sure I want to be on Prince Charming's good side. Being bad has worked out well for me thus far."

Henry cocks his head, because he knows that's not entirely true, but he lets it slide as Gramps returns with a bottle of beer in each hand.

"Your daughter has a taste for ale," Hook says as he takes a swig.

"I think my daughter has a taste for anything above a certain alcohol content."

"My kind of girl."

Whatever relaxation Gramps gained over the past few minutes vanishes and Hook must catch his death glare, because he quickly adds, "Merely a turn of phrase."

"You sure about that?"

The air changes in the room and Henry is no longer sure if he should be there anymore. He scoots closer to Charming's chair and feels his grandfather's large hand settle on the top of his head.

"I see the way you look at her," Gramps continues.

"A lot of men look at her that way."

And even  _Henry_ knows that was a dumb thing to say and he rolls his eyes at the captain as he feels Gramps tense next to him.

"I meant nothing by it. I just… You have a beautiful daughter. That's… that's all."

It's a rare moment of piety for the pirate, who does look truly contrite and Charming's face softens.

"You like her."

Hook snorts. "She leaves a lasting impression."

"She takes after her mother."

Quiet descends for the first time since they entered the station and Henry settles against Gramps' leg as the older men each take a swig of their beer. His lids are getting heavy and he comes to the conclusion that he probably shouldn't have had seconds, because he really does want to stay awake, but he's fighting a losing battle.

His head lowers to Gramp's leg – the closest thing to a pillow he'll find at the moment – and he allows his eyes to close as Gramps runs his hands through his hair.

"You know I can't really hold you in here. Even Archie isn't pressing charges."

"I know. But where else am I going to find a free bed in town?"

"True. Granny would probably triple your rate."

Henry hears Hook chuckle and silence descends again. The distinct slurp of an empty beer bottle is loud in the quiet room, and he feels more than hears Gramps sigh.

"Quite the conundrum, we have. Get more beer and wake the boy, or continue to converse with me without the buffer of alcoholic lubrication." Hook's voice sounds closer when he says, "You  _could_  toss me the keys and I could restock."

Gramps lets out an undignified snort.

"I wouldn't hurt the boy. Or you, frankly. Emma would never forgive me."

It's that admission that finally seems to convince Gramps, because Henry's head is jostled ever-so-slightly as he fishes the keys from his pocket. The movement is followed by the distinct sound of the keys hitting Hook's palm.

"Cheers."

The door opens and Hook's boots tread across the linoleum, but Henry keeps his eyes sealed shut as Gramps continues to stroke his hair.

"You make attractive family members," Hook says from somewhere around Emma's office.

"Excuse me?"

"He's cute," is the response and Henry realizes they're talking about him and his face burns.

"He is," Gramps replies, voice softer.

"How old?"

"Eleven."

The sounds of a bottle top being popped and the cell door shutting again are the last things Henry hears before he drifts off to images of ships and swords and princes and pirates.

xxxxx

It's cold.

That's the first thing he registers. The second is that he's no longer in the station, and the third (and perhaps most startling) is that he's being  _carried._

He's definitely too tall to be carried.

One arm hangs limp by his side while the other is loosely wrapped around his grandfather's neck. His face is pressed into his shoulder, but he is careful not to even change his breathing, lest he alert his grandfather that he is no longer asleep. His fingers, though, are definitely warm, because Gramps stayed true to his word and slipped the extra gloves onto his hands before they left.

Henry can tell when they've gotten home, because extra care is taken to not jostle him as they climb the stairs. He takes a moment to wonder how exactly Gramps is going to get the keys out of his pocket without putting him down, but that problem is apparently taken care of as the squeak of the hinges signal the door being open.

"Hey," Emma says.

"Hey," Gramps replies and his chest rumbles against Henry's. "Sorry, did we keep you up?"

Henry is sure Emma is shrugging, but he's too comfortable – and too curious – to open his eyes and check.

"I know he's always safe with you, but you know… I wanted to wait up."

He feels Gramps nod and he's pretty sure that's the closest Emma will ever get to openly admitting her trust.

"Need help with that?"

Gramps chuckles. "Nah, I'll just put him to bed."

 _No, no, no._  He's been waiting for a moment to spy on Gramps and Emma, hoping they'll get a little closer and this is a  _prime_ opportunity! He wiggles a bit and Gramps freezes on his way to the bedroom.

"Maybe just set him on the couch for now," Emma offers. "Until he's a little more 'out."

 _Yes!_ He feels Gramps nod again as he's slowly lowered to the cushiony confines below. This will do just fine.

"You smell like beer." Emma sounds both shocked and a little amused.

"Yeah, I owe your not-so-secret stash a few."

The couch dips and Henry knows Gramps has settled down next to him. It takes a few seconds before he feels his fingers gently running through his hair once more. Henry sinks further into the pillow and has to remind himself that there's a reason he's not giving in to the desire to just pass out.

"What prompted the imbibing?"

"Hook and I had a heart-to-heart."

Emma snorts. "That's sort of terrifying."

"Indeed." Gramps is quiet for a while, but the silence is heavy with all that's not being said. "It wasn't Hook. Actually, it was Henry."

"Henry?" Emma sounds startled. Henry knows the feeling. What did  _he_ do?

"He asked me if I wanted more kids."

Emma inhales sharply, but Gramps continues undeterred.

"And it just made me realize, not that I didn't already, but it solidified the fact that I've missed your entire life." Gramps' voice breaks and Henry immediately feels incredibly guilty for eavesdropping.

"Not all of it," Emma reasons, tone soft.

"The formative years."

"So you got drunk?"

"Maybe."

Emma snorts. "That doesn't sound very 'Prince Charming' of you."

"The title isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Silence.

"So. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want more kids?"

Henry can't help it, he peeks his eye open to find Emma looking more scared than he's ever seen her. Gramps' hand stills in Henry's hair and Henry holds his breath as he waits for the answer.

"I'm more than content with the one I have, thank you very much."

Emma exhales like a balloon whose air has been let out. "I wouldn't hold it against you."

"Emma – "

"I mean it!" She interrupts. "I didn't get to see him grow up, either. I… wouldn't mind a baby around here."

"We'll think about it. But right now, I'd rather get to know the daughter I do have."

Relief floods Emma's face and she bites her lip, staring at the mug of tea in her lap.

"I think she'd like that too."

His mother's smile is the last thing Henry sees before he closes his eyes again, and he drifts off, safe in the knowledge that his family, though complicated, is in it for the long haul.


	4. Don't Wait Up

His daughter is wearing a dress.

That in itself is a novelty, but that's not what concerns him. The hem falls a few inches above her knee – perfectly appropriate – but his  _daughter_  is wearing a  _dress_  and the _hem_ falls  _a few inches above her knee_.

As her father, this is entirely unacceptable.

Snow gasps and clasps her hands together as Emma descends and Charming instantly feels a sense of betrayal because  _how can she not see_ that their daughter is completely unfit for public consumption?

"You look beautiful!"

Charming sighs.  _Traitor._

"It's just August," Emma replies, as if his name alone completely excuses the extra eyeliner she's chosen to wear. "Stop glowering, it's not a date."

"I'm not glowering," Charming grumbles.

"You are, too," Emma replies.

"You are," Snow chips in. "You had the same look on your face when the trolls tried to storm the castle moat."

Charming instantly tries to relax his features, but he knows he's been caught. And it's true; Emma's hem is bringing out the same level of indignation and aggravation that those damn trolls inspired.

"It's drinks and bowling. Hardly a candlelit dinner." Emma claps him on the back and the tension in his shoulders eases somewhat.

Of all the men in her life, August is probably the smallest threat. She views him more like a brother than, say, Hook and Charming takes comfort in that. Still. That knowledge doesn't stop the glower from returning the second a knock is heard at the door.

"Stop that," Snow mutters as she passes him to let August in.

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Your nose is growing."

"I heard that," comes August's voice through the door.

"Sorry," Snow chuckles as she swings it open and ushers him in. "Charming is being less than."

"Hey!" He's been called many things, but to be called un-charming by  _Snow,_ of all people, is an affront indeed.

August smiles and shoves his hands into his pockets as he looks everywhere but at the prince.

"You want something to drink?" Emma calls from the kitchen as she pops the top on a bottle of beer.

"Aren't you going out?" Charming asks. The bowling alley is in walking distance (much like everything in this town) so there's no concern about driving, but really, he'd like his daughter as sober as possible for this outing.

As if she's reading his inner monologue, Emma quirks an eyebrow at him and takes a massive swig of her beer. "Chill out, Pops."

Charming's jaw drops as August and Snow laugh and it's not the blatant lack of respect that has him so gobsmacked. He's used to his daughter's insubordination; in fact, he kind of loves it. No, what has him glued to the floor is the whole 'Pops' of it all.

She's called him 'Dad' once in his life. Just a few days ago, in fact. But every time she uses any term of endearment in any tone (teasing or otherwise), it further drives home the fact that this is his daughter and he would do absolutely  _anything_ for her.

"Well, don't be rude. Toss one over," is the reply he tries to keep casual.

Emma grins and tosses one bottle at her father and the other at August. Both catch them effortlessly.

"Mary Margaret?"

"No, I'm good."

"Where's Henry?" August asks, noticing the silence that the boy's absence leaves.

"Playing with Grace at Jefferson's," Emma replies as August takes a seat at the counter, giving the prince a wide berth.

 _Jefferson._ Another man whose head Charming wouldn't be opposed to mounting on the wall.

August gapes. "You left your kid with The Mad Hatter?"

Hm. Maybe August is growing on him.

Emma responds by throwing a dishtowel at him and the man laughs and ducks, causing the towel to smack Charming in the face.

"Oops."

"Don't you two have places to be?" he asks as he picks the towel up from the floor.

Though he'd love to glare at August for the rest of the evening, really, he just wants a break from the sudden onslaught of men that have entered his daughter's life. He wants to sit back and put his feet up and not plot the death of one of the town's new residents for five minutes.

It's tiring, this whole 'father' business.

"Yeah, yeah, we're going," Emma responds as she tosses back the last of her beer and recycles the bottle. She really is too good at that.

"Have fun, you two!" Snow calls and Charming thinks that's very magnanimous of her.

He settles for a "Be careful," as he tosses one last narrowed gaze at August. The man visibly gulps.

"You know, you still scare me," August says, as he helps Emma into her coat.

"He scares you?" She spins around to stare at him, as if the thought of Charming scaring  _anyone_ is positively preposterous.

He tries not to bristle at that.

August nods. "Em, your father was a  _prince._ Do you know how intimidating that is for a seven-year-old?" His gaze shifts to Charming. _"_ That feeling hasn't diminished after 28 years."

Charming is silent a moment, before he grunts, "Good."

It's a truce of sorts, an understanding between men. Charming still stares at the floor though, because the image of Emma leaving the house in  _that_ dress is not something he wants to see when he closes his eyes. She lets out an amused snort, which she tries to turn into a cough, but she's fooling no one. And then she utters the three words he never, ever wanted to hear:

"Don't wait up!"

Charming manages to wait until the door closes behind them before he hangs his head and groans as if feeling physical pain.

Snow's chin fits perfectly on his shoulder if she stands on her tiptoes behind him, and she wraps her arms around his torso, brushing her nose against his neck. "It's just bowling, sweetheart."

"And alcohol," he mutters. "And August."

Snow giggles. "A perilous combination."

"Don't laugh! Did you see her dress?"

"Of course I did. I bought it for her."

He spins so quickly, she has to jump back. " _You_ bought that for her?"

He expects her to stand her ground; to get indignant and say something like, 'You're damn right I bought that for her,' but instead, she bites her lip and cocks her head and stares at him as if he's the most adorable thing in the world.

"Oh Charming…"

"What? What does that mean? Don't 'Oh Charming' me!" He sounds ridiculous, he knows he does. But he's rapidly losing ground to both his wife and daughter (who isn't even home) and  _why_ can't Henry be here to help level the playing field!

Snow guides him to the couch and, with a hand on his chest, gently pushes him down into the cushions. But instead of joining him, like he's really hoping she will, she stands in front of him with her hands on her lips and continues to stare at him with that annoyingly endearing and devastatingly beautiful smile.

"I think you've properly terrified every man in town. Even Leroy is too frightened to buy Emma a cup of coffee at Granny's, lest you drag him down to the station for questioning."

"I wouldn't question Leroy," he mumbles as Snow snorts.

"Well, Leroy doesn't know that. You know he's like an uncle to Emma, and yet ever since Hook, Neal, and August came to town, you're acting like anyone who glances sideways at her should lawyer up and be ready to post bail."

He's quiet for a moment, not agreeing or refuting, because, really, it's an awfully tempting notion, and the keys to the cells are right over there on the counter.

But finally, Snow sinks down into his lap and he wraps his arms around her waist, burying his face in her cropped hair and inhaling the scent that is so distinctly  _her._

"Give her space," his wife, ever the reasonable one, whispers. "You have her. Don't drive her away."

He sighs and she moves with the rise and fall of his chest. "Fine."

Snow pulls away and presses a kiss to each of his eyelids. "You're an amazing father. And Emma knows it, which is why she teases you."

Her fingernails graze the side of his head and he closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. Yes, he'd endure another 28 cursed years, if it meant one more day of this. Of having his wife in his arms and tracing the constellations of her freckles. Of giving his daughter's dates grief and welcoming his grandson home with a hot chocolate. Of looking in a mirror and seeing which features he managed to pass on to a daughter who's all he could have hoped for and more.

"Come on, my Prince," Snow says as she stands, beckoning him with an outstretched palm. "Henry won't be home for another hour."

He allows her to lead him through the curtain and to the bed, where she pushes him down again and slowly begins to undo the buttons on her blouse.

It's a feat of epic proportions that they manage to get their clothes back on in time for Jefferson to knock on their door. Charming doesn't like him, not one bit, but unfortunately he can't inflict any bodily harm with Grace by his side, absolutely beaming at the Prince and Princess she knew from a previous life.

Henry bounces in, waving bye to Grace and her father, and Jefferson practically picks Grace up and runs down the steps with her, just to get away from Charming's narrowed gaze.

"What happened to the relaxed man I saw twenty minutes ago?" Snow whispers as she passes him on her way to the kitchen to heat up some dinner for Henry.

"He was forced to get to out of bed," Charming mutters and Snow winks as she pulls out some pots and pans.

Dinner is quiet; well, as quiet as it can be with Henry giving his grandparents a play-by-play of the day. Charming loves it and would normally be hanging on his every word, if his attention wasn't being high-jacked by Emma and what she could possibly be doing right now.

They eventually get Henry to settle down and go to bed, which unfortunately leaves Charming with one less distraction. Still, his wife is wily in her ways, and he eventually finds himself back in bed and finding new constellations on her skin.

He's not sure how much times passes – his wife is good at keeping his attention occupied – but somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers a distant phone beeping.

Blinking a bleary eye open and reaching an uncoordinated hand down to blindly reach for his jeans, he eventually pulls the phone out of the back pocket and mutters a sound which he hopes sounds somewhat like, "Hello?"

"Prince James?"

The sound of August's slurred voice has Charming immediately bolting up in bed.

"What's wrong?" He's mindful to be quiet, since Snow is still sleeping peacefully beside him, but his heart is hammering against his sternum and he's pretty sure all of the blood just left his face.

"We're fine… Sort of… Drunk, but fine… ish."

Charming rolls his eyes as he hears Emma giggling loudly in the background. "Where are you?" he asks, already pulling on his jeans and shrugging a sweater over his head.

"Uhh, I think it's… Hold on…" there's a shuffling on the other end as Charming hears August ask a muffled, "Where are we?" Emma's laugh rings out again before August comes back. "A pub… the pub on" – hiccup – "on the other side of town."

Charming sighs. "I'll be there in five minutes. Do not move."

"Sir, yes, sir," August salutes, which is promptly followed by a crash, a curse, and more of Emma's laughter.

Charming ends the call and spends the drive trying to figure out how to tell Marco that he's maimed his only son.

The bar is nearly empty when he gets there, which is typical for 2am on a Friday night in Storybrooke. It smells like stale beer, roasted peanuts, and another smell that he has no desire to identify.

"My Prince!" August calls, arms in the air, when he catches sight of him, and  _oh boy_ Charming is so not prepared for this.

Emma is teetering dangerously on the edge of a bar stool, and he wants to be angry with her, but she positively beams at the sight of him and he can't be mad when his daughter is looking at him like  _that._

"Pops!" She, too, raises her arms and nearly ends up in a heap on the floor, if not for what little mental faculties August manages as he grips her shoulder, keeping her upright.

"That might have been my fault, your Majesty," the bartender says, a short man who clearly knows who he is. "They asked for the house special, but I don't think they realized just how much alcohol a house special contains."

"Noted," Charming wryly replies as he makes his way towards the drunken twosome.

"I totally kicked his wooden ass at bowling, Dad," Emma gloats as he approaches.

August merely gives a resigned nod. "It was ugly."

"Not as ugly as your tomorrow morning is going to be," Charming mutters, but the joke goes clear over their heads and he decides that, yes, it's definitely time to go home.

"Check?"

"On the house," the bartender replies, and he looks a little sheepish to be sending his princess back to her parents absolutely soused.

"Can you walk?" he asks August, because if the way Emma is leaning more and more against his shoulder is any indication, she won't be moving on her own anytime soon, and good though he may be, he can't carry both of them.

"I can walk. Drive? No. Carry her? No. Bowl? Apparently not… But I can walk."

"Good," Charming says as he places a hand on Emma's back and hooks his other under her knees, deftly hoisting her in the air and causing a tiny yelp to escape his daughter's mouth.

"Wow, you're really good at that. August, isn't he good at that?" she slurs.

"Very," August replies, tripping over the syllables, and Charming manages a nod to the bartender as he kicks the pub door open and lets the cool New England air wash over them. The fact that neither of them comments on the temperature proves just how liquored up they are.

Luckily, he parked right outside the door and he sets Emma down, never letting go of her waist, as he opens the door and practically lifts her into the truck. He leaves August to his own devices as he moves around to the driver's side and jams the key into the ignition.

" _It's just drinks and bowling,"_ she had said. Somehow, he thinks he would have preferred the candlelit dinner.

The ride is quiet; after Emma calms down enough to stop commenting on all of the things that Charming is good at, those currently being driving, sword fighting, impersonating a prince, and glowering. And not necessarily in that order. He half expects her to start playing 'I Spy' just to have something to say.

"So what do I call you?"

"Excuse me?" Charming glances in the rearview mirror to find August's wide blue eyes staring at him.

"What do I call you? When I was a kid, you were Prince James. Though, now I hear that you're not even that."

Charming glances over at Emma to find her passed out against the window, her breath fogging the glass, and he wonders what else she shared. She's not a sharer, not in the least. So the fact that the man in the backseat of his car brought down one of the many walls his daughter is so good at building, makes him reassess his opinion of him.

Perhaps Emma needs August. And if the way those wide blue eyes are pleading with him for some sort of acceptance, Charming guesses that August needs Emma just as badly.

"You can call me David."

He hears the once-wooden boy exhale heavily and Charming has to bite back his grin. He'll cut the kid some slack. Just this once. But if he gets his daughter drunk one more time, he'll figure out how to turn him back to wood and use his fingers as toothpicks.

The truck drifts to a stop outside of Marco's and it takes August three tries before he's able to open the car door. He debates on whether or not he wants to send him off with one last verbal scolding, but going by the way Marco swings the door open and stands there with his hands on his lips, Pinocchio is in for his own paternal lecture.

August seems to realize this and he audibly gulps before he exits the car.

"Good luck," Charming mutters.

"Thanks," August replies in a tone not unlike a man facing the firing squad. He shuts the door as gently as he can to not wake Emma, but David's pretty sure that a broadside by a freight train wouldn't wake her at the moment.

He waves to Marco, who sends an exasperated yet grateful wave in return, before putting the truck in 'drive' and heading back to their tiny apartment and the two people who hopefully will never find out what went on tonight.

This incident can remain between father and daughter – until the next time August and Emma decide to go drinking with a side of bowling.

Though she probably weighs 110 pounds soaking wet, it's not easy maneuvering her up the stairs. Banging her head is a near thing and he can't help but remember the last time he held her in his arms. She was a lot more manageable back then, even with the wound across his shoulder.

He finally manages to get the door open, allowing it to swing back as he takes a moment to listen. All quiet on the western front.

He tiptoes across the living room and sets her down on the couch. Henry is currently sprawled out on the bed upstairs and there's no way he's putting his drunk daughter anywhere near her impressionable son.

Emma's golden hair fans out across the pillow and he takes a moment to stare – something he doesn't allow himself to do while she's conscious. Because Emma keeps people at arm's length. She builds walls, and it's his job,  _their_ job, to slowly, gently, break them down.

He tears himself away to get her a large glass of water and a couple of aspirin, which he sets on the coffee table beside her. He covers her with a blanket and fusses with her pillow a bit, but really, he just wants a moment more. A moment of unguarded fascination for the person, this perfect and perfectly flawed person he helped create.

Gold was right: she does have her mother's chin. And yes, he thinks as he brushes a finger across her cheek, maybe even her father's tact.

He turns to go, but feels a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist, which keeps him where he is. Emma is staring at him and it's the most sober she's looked since she walked out the door that evening.

"Thanks for finding me," she whispers.

Charming swallows hard and smiles, knowing the words are coming before he even places the kiss on her forehead.

"I will always find you."


End file.
